


Pieces of a Hawk

by DelektorskiChick



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dark Past, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, friends falling for each other, squeeze of smut, you're with the wrong person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 9,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelektorskiChick/pseuds/DelektorskiChick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone wonders what made Clint Barton the man he is today. This is that story. Based off of my personal Hawkeye headcanons. Mostly fluff, but with a pinch of angst, a dash of H/C, and a squeeze of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: PARIS

Part I: PARIS

.0.o.0.o.0.

This is what has happened;

It started in Portland; Fury got word of a kill that matched a pattern he’d been tracking, one that linked back to Russia. One that linked back to a woman, an assassin known only as the Black Widow. All we had besides her kills to identify her was one grainy photo and a shaky description from an unreliable witness. But what made Portland different was that this time, we had a name.

Nicole Richards.

Once we had the name, we were able to track her; all of her aliases had the same initials, NR. And eventually, using those initials, we got a picture of her face that was clean enough to run through photo recognition. At last, we had her.

The Black Widow.

Natalia Romanova.

.0.o.0.o.0. 

This is what has happened;

I tracked her to Paris. I followed her through the streets. I followed her to her latest kill. I watched from outside the window as she mowed down a man in cold blood.

I was ready to take the shot.

.0.o.0.o.0. 

This is what has happened;

The Black Widow turned to kill the wife. I watched the woman beg her would-be killer, not for her life, but for her daughter’s.

I watched the Widow hesitate.

I watched her make a different call.

So I made a different call of my own.

.0.o.0.o.0. 

This is what has happened, but this is what I know;

Was the call I made the right call? Deep down in my gut, I believe so.

Does Natasha Romanoff think I made the right call? I hope so.

Does Director Fury think I made the right call?

Only time will tell.


	2. Driving

Clint knew he should have let Coulson be the one to give Natasha her first driving lesson.

Granted, the former Russian spy already knew how to drive; the Red Room Academy had trained her to infiltrate anywhere, and that meant she had to know how. That didn’t necessarily mean she could do it well. There was a world of difference between driving in Russia and driving in America. Besides which, when a highly sensitive secret spy group wanted you after you’d defected, you needed to get your driver’s license before you got your pilot’s.

Still, when a former police academy driving instructor turned stuntman outright failed someone, you shouldn’t volunteer to teach them. Ever.

“Brakes! Brakes! Hit the BRAKES!”

“Why?”

“WHY?! That was a red light! You’re supposed to stop!”

“It was clear.”

“That doesn’t matter! Even kids in car seats know that red means stop, green means go!”

“What about the yellow?”

“For you, that means stop too.”

“I thought it meant-”

“It means stop. Don’t argue. And for chrissakes, slow down! Those signs are not suggestions!”

Clint had been clinging to the bar over the door so hard that his right hand was starting to cramp. And when Natasha hit the highway, he began to jerk on the door handle as hard as he could with his left.

“Oh, God, why won’t it open!”

“You are acting like an infant. Grow older.”

“It’s up. Grow up. And considering I shit my pants on that last turn, I sort of feel like an infant. Turns are meant to be taken on four wheels, not two!”

“What if this was a motorbike?”

“Not the issue at hand, Romanoff. You need to get the hang of four wheels before I let you _anywhere_ near two.”

Aside from Natasha’s pathological need to weave in and out of traffic, straight aways weren’t too bad. At least, not until she almost missed their exit. Of course, Natasha would have said she knew where it was all along. Clint was convinced she still saw road signs in Cyrillic rather than English.

And thank whatever powers-that-be who were listening that it wasn’t raining, because their fishtailing might just have flipped the car if it had.

“I think I’m gonna be sick…”

“Quit whining. You’re lucky I haven’t shot you yet for-”

“BOTH HANDS ON THE WHEEL!!!”

“Nag, nag, nag, you’re such a старуха.”

The bland office that was SHIELD’s ground based headquarters came into view as they raced along the quiet road.

“Natasha, you think you might want to be using the brakes right about now? Or now? Or for the LOVE OF GOD, NOW?!”

Her turn into the parking lot had them spinning out but sliding neatly into a parallel parking space. Sideways. Clint’s scream grew higher and higher pitched as the curb closed in, ready to kill him. It petered out as the movement of the vehicle stopped.

As soon as Natasha shifted into park and the doors unlocked, Clint flung his open and let his wobbly knees hit the ground outside the SHIELD building. The solid concrete was reassuring, and for a moment he wanted to fall forward and kiss it. He managed to restrain the urge.

“Solid land! I’m never leaving you again!” He couldn’t restrain the one that had him shouting to the sky, however. Coulson, wearing his perpetual shades, merely shook his head.

“That’s the last time I give you a Red Bull before a mission.”

“I want hazard pay, Phil!”

“I’ll run that by the Director.”

Natasha walked by him, rolling her eyes and clicking the lock button on the remote.

“You should see me drive a stick. I make gearshifts much smoother.”

“Never again, Romanoff. Never. Again.”

“Child.”

He really should have let Coulson give Natasha her first driving lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> старуха – Russian for old woman


	3. Singing

_“Bye-bye Miss American pie, drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry…”_

Natasha smiled at the low voice in her ear. Thankfully, he mark assumed it was meant for him and not her partner that she knew was watching her every move through his high powered scope.

When she reached over to touch her notoriously hypochondriac target (“Do you think I’m getting sick, Ms. Rushman?”) Clint switched to Foreigner.

_“Hot-blooded! Check it and see, I got a fever of one hundred and three…”_

She nearly spilled her tea from trying not to laugh. Then she sent a glare out the window that she knew contained his best line of sight.

If Barton blew her cover, she’d kill him. And Clint knew it. He kept his singing to himself until the end of her operation, when she was walking out of the mark’s apartment building. In that moment, she hated Roy Orbison.

_“Pretty woman, walking down the street; pretty woman, the kind I like to meet-”_

Nat cut him off.

“Clint, do you know why the caged bird stops singing?”

“… Can’t say that I do. I know _why_ it sings… pure boredom. Next time, I get to seduce the rich guy.”

“The caged bird stops singing because the poisonous spider bit it.”

“… No more _Pretty Woman_?”

“No more _Pretty Woman_.”

_“Bye-bye Miss American Pie…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs are American Pie written by Don McLean, Hot Blooded written by Lou Gramm and Mick Jones of Foreigner, and Oh Pretty Woman written by Roy Orbison and Bill Dees. And the line about seducing the rich guy I shamelessly stole from Jeremy Renner's character William Brandt in MI: Ghost Protocol. 'Cause you know he's said it to Nat before.


	4. Flying

“No way in hell I’m letting you anywhere _near_ the controls of a quinjet.”

“Why not? I passed my pilot’s exam, I have my license.”

“Yes, and I’d rather not have my death come flying at me twice as fast. I already see it in high definition when you drive. You can man the guns.”

The partners finished their preflight checks in the cockpit, waited for the other SHIELD agents to finish boarding, and then, with Clint in control of the joystick, they took off, headed back for the helicarrier. As they travelled over the vast, empty expanse of the Sahara, Clint shifted the expensive vehicle into autopilot and turned to Natasha.

“There’s something that’s been on your mind awhile. It’s eating at you. Why don’t you just ask?”

Natasha blinked at him, poorly concealing her surprise. “Who says I have any kind of question for you?”

“You do.” Clint just looked at her unchanging expression. “It’s how you glance at me out of the corner of your eye. I’m not just Hawkeye cause I can hit a target, you know.”

“Why are you? Called Hawkeye, that is.”

“You, Agent Romanoff, are looking at a living relic of days gone by. A genuine carnie; I ran away as a kid to join the circus and everything. The Amazing Hawkeye; best shot this side of the Atlantic.”

Keeping an eye on her targeting systems, Natasha cast what Clint called her interrogation stare his way.

“There’s more to it than that, though, isn’t there?”

“Oh yeah.” When Clint didn’t continue his reply, Nat sighed. When he turned back to the controls, she rolled her eyes and opened up the dossier on her lap. They flew in silence for a good twenty minutes before he spoke again.

“D’ya know why my favorite color is purple?”

Natasha cocked an eyebrow.

“I can’t see any other colors. Only those with short wavelengths.” He paused and took a deep breath. “What I am about to tell you is only known by a handful of people. Me, Fury, Coulson, my SHIELD doctor, and my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

“Now is not the time or the place for that story. But I figure, as my partner, you deserve to know this.”

He turned his gaze to her.

“This is trust, Romanoff. If you tell anyone… It could go very badly for me in the future. Can I trust you?”

Natasha met his eyes. “Barton, you’ve had my trust since you turned me down that first night after Paris. This secret will go with me to my grave.”

Clint took in more of the sand flying by below them for a moment, then nodded.

“The doctors don’t really have a name for it. All they know is that I have over twice the normal number of rods in my eyes than a normal person, and less than a quarter of the cones. My eyes focus like a raptor’s, finding moving targets, and I see in mostly black and white, for increased contrast. Only very short wavelengths can get through, hence my favorite color being purple. Sidebar; it gives me the neat little trick of being able to see through two-way mirrors.

“That’s my superpower; a genetic defect that gives me good aim.”

Natasha processed this for a few moments, then nodded.

“So, when we get to the carrier in Turkey, I’m driving us into Russia. Your safe driving habits will get our covers blown faster than you can shoot.”

As she went on, berating his driving, his piloting, Clint smiled. She accepted that that was all he wanted to say on the matter, and she wasn’t going to treat him any differently. She wouldn’t tell anyone about him.

Finally, a partner he could trust at his back. What a feeling. It was almost enough to make him feel like he could fly.


	5. Awake

The disconcerting ‘thump’ told Natasha that Clint was awake. The groan that followed told her he was still alive.

“If you didn’t sleep all the way up there, you wouldn’t fall out of bed every morning.”

A grunt was her only reply as her partner made his way to the counter. More importantly, made his way to the coffee machine. Once he’d poured a mug and taken a nice long pull, he sighed in happy satisfaction. Then he sat down on the couch next to Nat, who had her feet tucked up beneath her and a steaming cup of tea balanced on her knee. The newspaper and the dossiers for their next mission spread on the table in front of her.

“Should I even ask how you got into my apartment this time?”

“Nope.”

He eyed the table. “We have a new assignment from Coulson?”

“Yep.”

“Where? When?”

“Budapest. Twelve hours.”

“Night flying? Ugh. No sleep.”

“As much as you sleep, I figure you can stay up for days.” Surprisingly, he seemed to actually give her comment some serious thought.

“I can if I need to. I just don’t like to. And I can sleep wherever, whenever. The circus saw to that.”

They sat in silence a little bit longer. Nat was about to get up and let him shower, read over the files when he spoke again.

“As for the elevated bed, I make a point of never being where I aught to. Someone were to ever, say, break into my apartment to kill me and just open fire in the bedroom without looking, they’d miss.” He nodded a concession. “Also a hangover from the circus. Can’t hurt what you can’t find.”

Natasha nodded. She understood. Then her brows twitched.

“And the pile of pillows in a ring?”

He smirked. “Sometimes you just have to live up to the stereotype. Shoulda seen Phil’s face the first time he saw it.”

Natasha couldn’t help it; she giggled. Now Clint really smiled.

“Wow. The world must be ending. Natasha Romanoff, giggling.”

That sobered her quick enough.

“I wonder what you would do if I ever switched your coffee to decaf one morning.”

He looked horrified. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Tell anyone, ANYONE I giggled, and you’ll find out, birdbrain.”

“Oh, bite me, Tasha.”

“Happy to, Barton. Just be prepared to die afterwards. Black widows are poisonous, you know.”


	6. Part II: BUDAPEST

This is what has happened;

In Budapest, things got FUBAR’d almost immediately. Even the best laid plans can go haywire, but when your intelligence on the target is in the regular class rather than up in the advanced group where it needs to be and your nearest back-up is 200 miles away and there’s someone else out there almost as good as you are, things can go to hell in a handbasket pretty quickly.

.0.o.0.o.0.

This is what has happened;

When you’re trying to cover your partner and save civilian lives at the same time, sometimes hard choices have to be made. Sometimes those choices wind up adding red to your ledger rather than wiping it out.

.0.o.0.o.0.

This is what has happened, but this is what I know;

In Budapest, I had to make a difficult call. Am I convinced it was the right one? Absolutely. Does that make it any easier?

Absolutely not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize in advance to all the fans of Bobbi Morse and Mockingbird out there. My OTP is BlackHawk, not BirdBrains. I know Bobbi's badass; I even think she is. But she needs to keep her claws off of Clint.
> 
> 'Nuff said.


	7. Cooking

The only reason Nat didn’t notice the smell at first was because she was lying face down in Clint’s couch, letting her aches and wounds rest. But when she did notice, she pushed straight up off the cushions, nose in the air. Her upset over the mission that had gone sideways two days ago vanished as she stood up and followed the glorious smells into the kitchen. Clint was stirring a couple of pots on the stove as he shuffled something around in a pan. He looked up as Natasha walked in.

“Good, I was just about to wake you up. I need another pair of hands. Could you slice the bread and butter it while I finish these meatballs?”

“One of these days I’m going to find out exactly what you put in those things and you’ll have to get Agent Morse to make your damn garlic bread.”

Clint laughed. “You wish. You haven’t even figured out my sauce yet. Set your sights a little lower at first, Romanoff.”

An aggravated sigh with what sounded like a Russian curse was his only reply.

“You haven’t gotten my burger recipe either, come to think of it.”

“If you ever write it down, anywhere, on any surface, I _will_ find it, Barton. You can count on it.”

“I know. That’s why I keep it in my brain. You haven’t been able to crack that so far.”

“’Cause I haven’t really tried. I like you cooking for me; I ever decide I don’t, you better watch out.”

Clint laughed again. They fell into an easy silence as the food cooked.

It wasn’t often that the partners got a chance to just relax together. Even with enforced downtime after a mission, they rarely had the same days free, and when they did, they were more than likely on different continents (or Clint was off with Bobbi Morse… but Nat didn’t like to think about that.) But every so often, the stars aligned (or Coulson pulled some strings) and they were together. That’s when Clint would cook. Simple, easy recipes, but all from scratch.

Natasha loved it. They’d both rarely had home cooked meals when they were young, so Clint indulged her with youth favorites. Grilled cheese, hamburgers, and one time lasagna. But her absolute favorite was his spaghetti and meatballs.

The mission in Budapest had gone all to hell in 48 hours. They’d barely gotten out with their lives. He’d been dueling another sniper while Nat had been on the ground fighting for her life and the lives of some innocent civilians.

A lot of those lives had been lost.

Coulson had pulled his strings. So now here he was, standing in his kitchen, covered in bruises, cooking spaghetti.

Natasha’s knives, knives that 30 hours ago had been arcing through the air, covered in blood, delicately sliced through the loaf of Italian bread he’d picked up while she’d been passed out on his couch. He saw her wince as she reached into his fridge to grab his homemade garlic butter.

“Shoulder?”

“Side.”

“Pulled it?”

“Laceration.”

“I’ll stitch it up later.”

“You’d better.”

Clint’s own shoulders protested as he lifted the boiling pot of pasta and dumped it into the strainer. Natasha lightly rinsed it as he slid the bread into the oven and added the meatballs to the sauce. Nat opened a bottle of Merlot and used the counter to pop the top off one of Clint’s favorite beers. She pulled out two mismatched plates and forks, he grabbed a rag and opened up the oven. Nat tonged spaghetti onto both plates; Clint ladled sauce and meatballs on top.

The partners were moving in ragged unison, a milder version of their usual macabre ballet. Their patterns and senses were worn down after four days of being on point. They sat down at Clint’s scarred and scuffed table and let the food and alcohol wipe all the weariness away.

They’d patch each other up later. For now, it was about simple food and simple pleasures.

“Clint, one of these days I’m going to figure out these spices and then no meatball will be safe.”

“Whatever you say, Tasha.”

And it was for damn good meatballs.


	8. Languages

“And then you say ‘Меня зовут Джеймс Холбрук, и я адвокат из Германии.’”

“Seriously Tash? It’s gonna sound like I’m gargling rocks.”

“That’s because you have to put the German accent on it. You have that down, but you keep trying to copy my accent. You can’t do that.”

“… I can’t believe I missed date night with Bobbi for this _merda_.”

“… If you would stop thinking about Agent Morse’s στήθοςthis would go a lot smoother.”

“What the hell do you have against Bobbi?”

“That шлюха is going to get one or both of you killed on a mission one day.”

“Don’t you dare call her that.”

“You don’t even know what I said.”

“ _Me da igua_ , I know your tone, Nat.”

“Fine. Fine! _Ne venez pas en cours d'exécution pour moi quand votre mission échoue parce que vous êtes tellement dans cette vous n'étudiez pas une langue nécessaire pour votre travail!"_

“Don’t you walk away from me, Romanoff! … _Oh sheleem ah shelha_.”

“What did you just call me du verdammter Hurensohn?!”

“Scheiße. Of all the Hebrew phrases I’ve thrown at you over the years, _that’s_ the one you know?”

“Fine. I hope you and the _puta_ are very happy together. I’ll spit on your graves for luck when she gets you killed.”

“Natasha!” This time when she turned to walk out the door, she managed to actually get out and slam it.

Clint just stared at the door his partner had just stormed out of. He couldn’t remember Natasha ever getting this angry before. He rested his face in his palms.

“Câcat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment when the author's notes are almost as long as the chapter. Special thanks to Sarah M. for my Russian translations, Sheryl F. for my French, and Lexie O. for my German. Also, thanks to the anonymous person on Yahoo for the Hebrew. Everything else was Google translate or my brain ('cause I had to get something out of four years of Spanish class). Again, my apologies to Bobbi Morse fans.
> 
> Меня зовут Джеймс Холбрук, и я адвокат из Германии. – Russian - 'My name is James Holbrook, and I am an attorney from Germany.'
> 
> Merda – Italian - 'shit'
> 
> Στήθος – Greek - female chest, specifically breasts
> 
> шлюха – Russian - 'slut'
> 
> Me da igua – Spanish - 'I don't care'
> 
> Ne venez pas en cours d'exécution pour moi quand votre mission échoue parce que vous êtes tellement dans cette vous n'étudiez pas une langue nécessaire pour votre travail! – French - Don't come running to me when your mission fails because you're so into that bitch you failed to learn a language necessary for a job!
> 
> Oh sheleem ah shelha – phonetic spelling (I hope!) for the Hebrew insult 'Your mother's vagina'. Basically the equivalent of English's 'son of a bitch'.
> 
> Du verdammter Hurensohn – German - 'you fucking son of a bitch'
> 
> Scheiße – German - 'shit'
> 
> Puta – Spanish - 'bitch'
> 
> Câcat – Romanian - 'shit' (Clint knows that word in many languages. It's one of his favorites.)


	9. Hospitals

Nat knew that Clint hated hospitals, but she didn't know quite how much until the day he woke up after setting off a sonic arrow at point blank range.

Her first indication that her partner was awake was when a loud crash reverberated through the hospital wing aboard the helicarrier. She dropped what she was doing at the nurse's station (SHIELD might perform background checks, but Natasha did paranoid ones) and ran to his room.

Clint was standing in the middle of the room with his back to the door, wearing nothing but his medical-issued drawstring pants. He was breathing heavily, arms akimbo and shaking. A terrified nurse stood her ground (barely) in one corner. An upended tray leaned against the wall, some miscellaneous medical supplies scattered around it.

"Clint, what happened? What did she do to you?" Her partner didn't respond.

"I-I-I didn't do anything to him, ma'am. I don't think he can hear us." The nurse was losing some of her terror now that another agent was here. And possibly the only agent who had a chance at controlling Hawkeye at that.

Clint's shoulders tensed as he realized the nurse wasn't speaking to him, but to someone behind him. He spun around in a fighting stance, but he froze when he saw Natasha.

"Tasha…" He visibly relaxed.

"Nurse Sajda, you can leave now."

Nat could see Clint watching her mouth, reading her lips. He _knew_ the nurse would be leaving the room, but he still started as the woman walked past his field of vision. Natasha stopped the woman in the doorway and turned her head so that Clint couldn't see what she was saying.

"I want Agent Coulson and Agent Barton's doctor down here asap. But they don't enter until I give the all clear. Understood?"

Sajda gave a quick nod of her head. "Yes ma'am." And then she scrambled out of the room as fast as she could. Natasha looked Clint in the eye.

"You always were a romantic."

"What?"

She moved to the bed and sat down. He had to follow her to understand what she was saying. "Ro-man-tic." She enunciated, forming the sounds as large as she could so he could read her lips.

"Not that. What happened?"

She quirked her head to one side. "You don't remember?"

"No." Unconsciously he rubbed at his ears.

"You saved Bobbi. Even after all the shit she put you through-"

"Not her fault."

"See? Romantic." That earned her a smirk.

"So how did I save her?"

"Sonic arrow." Clint nodded, understanding lighting his face.

"I was too close to the blast. It's happened before. I'll be better in a few weeks."

"…No, Clint, you won't." He looked at her, a question in his eyes. God, those damn eyes… "You weren't too close to the blast. You were at the point of detonation. Barton… you set the damn thing off in your hand."

He looked as though she'd shot him.

"The doctors are surprised your bones aren't jelly. As it is you've been unconscious for the last three days." She didn't mention that Bobbi hadn't been there at all, while she hadn't left the infirmary wing. No need to rub his nose in _that_ loss.

Clint slid down the wall he'd been leaning against.

Natasha saw the light flick on on the camera in the corner. Coulson had arrived, and was letting her lead this.

If she believed in a god, she would thank him for small favors.

She stood up from the bed and walked over to him. Natasha crouched down in front of him, trying to catch his gaze. He looked down, to the side, anywhere but her. Nat sat down beside him, staring out into the room.

Seconds, minutes, hours later (she didn't really know) he sighed and rested his arms on his bent knees. Clint raised his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling and rubbing his ears again.

"I ever tell you why I hate hospitals so bad?"

Nat didn't move, didn't make a sound. Clint wouldn't have heard her even if she did.

"I spent a lot of time in them when I was little. My daddy was a drunk, and a mean one at that. Used to throw me and my older brother around a bit. I had fifteen hospital visits by the time I was seven years old. Then the car accident… He was drunk again. Wrapped the car around a tree, killed him instantly. My brother pulled me out; after that, I don't remember anything until I woke up in the hospital and they were telling me our mama had passed. She hadn't survived the surgery."

He was quiet for a very long moment.

"And then… in the group home… more visits." His smile was sick looking. "I can't stand to be in one of these sterile rooms ever since."

Nat leaned her head against his shoulder. Clint stiffened, then relaxed. If she wasn't on a job, this was about as close to a hug as she ever got.

They sat there for hours.

The little red light on the camera never went out.

.0.o.0.o.0.

_Two months later…_

"There has been very dramatic improvement, but I don't think you can expect much more. You'll probably only have forty-five percent hearing in your left ear, sixty percent in your right. You're lucky to have any hearing at all, given your proximity to the explosion. And it will probably get worse as you get older."

Clint stared at the doctor's mouth, not really absorbing anything he was saying. Deaf. Permanently deaf. God, hadn't he been punished enough for the wrong in his life? Wasn't working for SHIELD saving lives enough to make up for the ones he'd taken? Even out his ledger?

His thoughts were reeling, screaming, he couldn't focus. Then, an anchor, a touch on his hand. His thoughts calmed, eased, all focusing on that one point of contact.

Natasha.

"I'll take care of him. Get him to his fittings. I'll make sure he doesn't miss his appointments."

He looked at his partner, and for the first time since he set off that damn arrow, he felt peace. And that's when he knew he was no longer in love with Bobbi Morse.

He was in love with Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow.

God have mercy on his soul.


	10. Missing & Stitching

Clint winced as Natasha's needle dug under his skin, _pulling_ the two pieces of his flesh together.

"I was stupid."

"Not gonna argue with that."

"Gee, thanks for your support, Tash."

"Welcome."

"GAH!"

"Sorry."

"Not your fault. I shoulda sensed him or something, turned around. And I didn't."

"Clint, your hearing aid was on the fritz. That is not on you."

"Still, I shouldn't've missed a shot that easy. I had that asshole in my crosshairs-"

"Clint." Natasha grabbed him by his uninjured shoulder and spun him around, facing her. "That. Was. Not. Your. Fault. You've learned. You won't do it again." Thankfully, she didn't say that he'd screwed up his first real mission back in the field. He was already beating himself up enough over that. She bit off the last bit of thread connecting the needle to his stitches, then stood with a slight grimace. "At least it wasn't like Prague where you shot the wrong guy. Now, are you gonna help me wrap my ribs or not?"

"Why must you bring up that complete flop of a mission?" He stood rather carefully himself as Nat peeled off her sweat-soaked top. Clint kept his eyes firmly away from her sports bra and on the greening bruise on her side. He whistled. "Damn. What hit you, a truck?"

"A piece of one at least. Cracked at least one rib, probably two." The bruise spread from her armpit to the bottom of her ribs, and from her spine to the edge of her chest. He stood behind her, wrapping the pressure bandage around her torso.

Natasha's eyes fluttered shut. His hands barely ghosted over her injured ribs, light as the feathers of his namesake. His touch was driving her insane. She had to distract herself or it would lull her into dropping her walls around him. And she couldn't afford to do that.

"I would have been fine, you know. I interrogate people by letting them think they're interrogating me. You can't come barreling in like that."

Clint fastened the wrap before he answered. "Still getting used to letting my partner get beat up and not being able to do anything about it." He tapped his nearly invisible hearing aid. "New rules, remember? I get jumpy sometimes."

"Yeah, well, you need to not do that." Her eyes narrowed as she watched him move away stiffly. "Get your ass back over here, Barton. You landed on your quiver again, didn't you." Clint sighed, hanging his head before nodding. "Take your shirt off and sit down. If you cut your back open again, Coulson will flay me alive if I don't clean it out. We barely caught the infection in time after the last one."

"Nag, nag, nag."

"Sit your ass down, birdbrain."

"Yes ma'am."

Clint pulled his shirt off as Nat slid hers back on. She took one look at his back and hissed in sympathy.

"How bad?"

"Not as bad as Zagreb, but certainly worse than Hong Kong."

"Ouch."

"I'll say." Natasha reached into the (SHIELD stocked) first aid kit and grabbed two ice packs. She popped the inner bags, then used medical tape to secure them in place. "There's no laceration, but you probably bruised a couple ribs, and there's more blood on your uniform than there should be for that slash on your arm. Turn around and let me see the wound you're trying to hide."

Natasha thought her eyes were playing tricks on her when she saw Clint's back stiffen. Then he turned and she thought they were outright lying to her.

"When the hell did _that_ happen?"

Clint looked down at the shallow stab wound on his chest. "Probably about the same time they were going after you with that brick."

"идиот." She hissed. He looked up at her, confusion on his face. "Don't you see where it is? It's right over that too soft heart of yours." Clint looked down at the stab wound in a whole new light.

"Huh."

"That's all you can say?! You almost got yourself killed attempting to rescue me from a situation I had total control over, and all you can say is huh?! You are such a Засранек."

Her tirade dissolved into a string of Russian curses he could barely follow, but which included insults to his manhood, his parentage, and his aim. But he didn't fail to notice that while her words were vicious, her hands were gentle as she stitched him up.

"If I didn't know any better, Tasha, I'd say you have feelings for me."

That succeeded in stunning her into silence. Even her hands froze. Their eyes met, and suddenly she was leaning in, aiming for his lips. His breath caught and his eyes closed and then-

With a firm tug, she pulled the final stitch closed and bit the thread to sever it.

"Maybe I just don't want to break in a new partner. Training you was hard enough; I can't imagine how bull-headed or piss-their-pants-scared the next one would be."

Clint's breath left him in a rush. He laughed as best he could. "Yeah, wouldn't want to make more work for you, Widow."

He let her finish patching him up and lean him back on his cot in a way that jarred his injuries the least.

Were all his relationships doomed to be one-sided?

.0.o.0.o.0.

As the injured Clint fell into a light sleep, Natasha let out a long, quiet sigh. That had been close, too close, in more ways than one.

She didn't know quite when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, she'd fallen, and fallen hard, for her partner. Maybe it had started when he'd given her a choice, a choice she could make on her own, without Red Room dictating the answer. Maybe it had been when he'd turned down her form of payment for saving her life that first time. Maybe it had been in the countless times he'd saved it since.

But now, coming so close to losing him, it made her face the thing she'd been hiding from herself.

Natasha Romanoff was in love with her partner. And for once, she was at a loss with what to do.

As soon as they got back to base, she was requesting separate assignments. Maybe take that undercover op in Stark Industries Coulson kept hinting about. Perhaps some time apart would help her get her head on straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> идиот – Russian - idiot
> 
> Засранек – Russian - asshole


	11. Part III: New York

Part III: NEW YORK

This is what has happened;

It started in New Mexico; I spent six months watching far too many nerdy scientists geek out over a tiny blue cube. Supposedly, this cube was a key to unlimited energy, a doorway to the far end of space. Did no one else realize that doors open from both sides?

Apparently not, because a crazed demigod pushed his way through.

.

This is what has happened;

I… I don't really remember much after that. Not until Natasha saved my ass. Again.

.

This is what has happened;

We saved New York. Sort of. There's a lot of rebuilding left to do, and not all of it is physical. Some of it is mental.

And most of that is me.

.

This is what has happened, but this is what I know;

We won. But was the call my partner made to save me the right one?

At this point, who knows?


	12. Nightmares

Clint hadn't been able to go back to his apartment since the Avengers had seen Thor and his brother back to Asgard. It didn't take a genius (even though Tony obviously was) to figure out why. If he went back to his apartment, he'd be alone. And he wasn't quite ready for that just yet. No one there to snap him out of a nightmare, make sure he was really his own man and not a Loki meat puppet. So he gave Clint and Natasha adjoining suites on the same floor of his tower and said nothing further. Tony knew about nightmares. And he would do everything he could to help his friends through it.

.0.o.0.o.0.

Natasha woke on the couch to the sound of Clint's bare feet pacing back and forth across the hardwood floors. She sighed.

"You're never going to get cleared for duty if you don't get some sleep."

Her partner hadn't done more than catnap (and the irony of that term being applied to Hawkeye was not lost on her) for three days. His psych eval was in two. He needed to level out or he'd never get his field clearance back.

His laugh wasn't the same laugh she knew. This one was cold, hard. A mask.

"I can't close my eyes without seeing their faces. All the agents I-"

"Stop." Something that sounded eerily like a sob choked his throat. "None of those deaths were your fault, Clint. None."

"Why not? It was my arrows in their bodies."

"Because when push came to shove, you didn't take the kill shot." His snort was still too high pitched to be considered normal, but it was getting better. "You shot Fury in the vest instead of taking a headshot, you flat out _missed_ Hill-"

"I… I shot Fury? Hill?" He froze. The look on his face was one of confusion.

"Clint…" Natasha spoke slowly, like she was afraid to startle him. "Do you remember _anything_ while you were… compromised?"

"I… no. No, not really. All I really remember until you hit me is this wall of blue coming down, separating me from my body. And… _him_ , telling me 'You have heart'."

Natasha sat up straighter. "But you told me things when you woke up-"

"Bits and pieces, here and there. Nothing really solid, except…"

Realization dawned. "Except when you dream."

A pained noise escaped her partner, but at last he sat down.

"I go to sleep, and all I can see is _him_."

Natasha pulled herself up next to him and leaned her head down on his shoulder. When he cringed away from her touch, she wanted to weep.

Separate assignments hadn't helped. She still had feelings for her partner, feelings that had been forbidden to her until Clint freed her, had given her a choice. And when Coulson had called and told her he'd been compromised…

It cemented it.

She was in love with this broken, beautiful man.

Tasha took his hand in hers, rubbing light fingers over his archery calluses.

"Loki-" he shuddered, then leaned his cheek on her head. She went on firmly. "You can't be afraid of his name, or he'll always hold power over you. _Loki_ took you apart like a puzzle. I'm here to piece you back together again."

In a lesser man, his sigh would have been called a sob.

"You think you can sleep if I stay here with you?" She felt him nod against her head. "Okay then."

She led them over to his bed and leaned them back against the pillows piled high at the head. She started humming a half remembered Russian lullaby as she ran her thumb over his hand.

Slowly, the tension that held his shoulders rigid over the last three days eased. Clint's breathing evened, and eventually his death grip on her hand eased. But he didn't let go.

Natasha wouldn't have let him anyways. Gingerly, she shifted until she could wrap her free arm around him and held him close, breathing in his smell of leather and sweat and cordite.

He'd helped her through her own nightmares once. It was time to wipe that red from her ledger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another series that I am kind of blocked on called The Nightmare Series. It's not just Avengers, but it's still only on FFN .net. I'm working on it, ok? It'll be here soon.


	13. Migraines

Natasha was worried about Clint. This was the third time he'd missed an Avengers meeting, and she knew of at least two other appointments he'd missed, if only because they'd been mentioned to her in passing for being odd. This wasn't like him. Granted, since the New York Incident (and Loki, she told herself, don't forget Loki) he'd kept most people at a distance, including her. Hers was a closer distance, but a distance nonetheless, even after that first week she'd spent trying to help him sleep. It was a buffer. She understood that; he needed time. But even with the distance, it wasn't like him to miss things completely.

He was Hawkeye. He never missed anything.

Natasha didn't bother knocking on his apartment door. She pulled out the key she'd swiped years ago when they first met and used it to let herself in.

"Clint? You here?" She let the door slam behind her in the dark room. She was reaching for the light switch when she heard a low moan coming from his couch. All of Nat's senses went on high alert. "Clint? Are you hurt? Is there someone else here?" She flicked on the lights and the moan grew louder.

In an instant, she was crouched beside the old piece of dumpster bait that served Clint as a couch. The archer himself was lying on his side, one arm draped over his eyes. Nat took in the absence of blood, then laid her hand on his elbow.

"Everything alright?" She didn't imagine the flinch that came before his mumbled answer.

"Five by five." He very obviously wasn't.

"And with you?"

"Not particularly."

"You know you missed a meeting, right? Rogers is pissed."

He winced. "Could you talk lower? My head is pounding."

Natasha furrowed her brow. For anyone else, it would have been a full blown frown. She whispered, "Are you hungover?"

Cling winced again. "Pitch, not volume, Tasha. And no. Why'd you have to turn on the light anyway?"

Pieces started to fall into place as Nat straightened. Now she did frown as she stalked over to the wall and flipped off the lights.

Clint sighed in relief. "Thanks, Tash."

She waited until her eyes had adjusted before heading back to Clint's ragged couch. She shoved his legs off and sat down, and then it was her turn to sigh as he put his legs back up in her lap. This time, she made sure she pitched her voice low before speaking.

"You've got a migraine, don't you."

Her tone revealed to be a statement and not a question. She felt rather than saw him remove his arm from his face.

"Yeah."

"You never got them before."

"Nope."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"How do they start?"

Clint let out a ragged breath. "My vision starts going fuzzy at the edges, and then large light spots appear right in the middle. First time it happened I nearly had a heart attack; the infamous Hawkeye, already partially deaf, going blind. But then it clears up, almost completely until it goes black around the edges and fuzzy across the middle. It's usually accompanied by splitting pain in my head. Then I can hardly move until it passes. I hide here in the dark until it hopefully goes away. Haven't found anything that dulls the pain so far. You've got no idea how much this hurts. I'd rather have a gunshot wound."

Natasha sat there with him for awhile, rubbing his calves. She watched his face as he grimaced his way through waves of pain.

"Mine usually start with auras appearing around light sources." Her voice was soft, lulling. "They gradually move to objects, and then Aura's friends spots and dots come out to play. I have to lie down until it goes away. Darkness is about the only thing that helps, but silence does too. Because all noise sounds like grating glass."

She felt Clint's eyes on her and knew how much it had to pain him.

"Mine are left over from Red Room. They played around in my brain, so now I'm paying the price."

Clint was so quiet and still, Nat thought he might have fallen asleep, which would be that much better for his migraine.

"They started after… after _Loki_."

Apparently he wasn't.

"I figured. You had your brain rooted around in; there's going to be some side effects."

"I thought the nightmares and the blackout of my memory was bad. But this…"

"Makes you want to drive an arrow through your skull."

"Yeah."

Natasha continued to rub Clint's legs as she felt him relax. She stared off into the dark as her partner slowly slid into the arms of Morpheus.

Slowly, carefully, she stood. She tried to walk away, but Clint shifted in her direction.

"Tasha?"

"Yes?"

"Don't go."

She sat down on the floor next to him and took his hand. "I'm not going anywhere, Hawk."

"Thanks Tash."

"You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who were wondering, "five by five" is police radio code for "I'm fine". And I'm always happy to toss in a Joss reference. Faith always was my favorite Slayer…


	14. Air Vents

Tony had been having a good day. Pepper had inadvertently helped him to streamline a new bunch of phone system tech. Cap had loaned him his shield (under supervision only, but JARVIS counted, so that was okay) for some tests on the vibranium. Bruce hadn't blown anything up lately (or hulked out). And he'd just finished his upgraded prototype of Romanoff's new Widow's Bites. Now he was on his way to the archery range with blueprints of some new arrow designs for Barton.

He'd just stepped out of the elevator when a scratching sound overhead made him pause and look up.

"JARVIS, run scans through the ventilation system looking for rodents and other vermin. Then set up a few scenarios for extermination and send them to my workstation upstairs."

"Shall I include both lethal and non-lethal measures, sir?"

"Why not? Have at it, J."

"Of course, sir."

Tony strode through the door to the range, flinging it wide open. "Alright, Katniss, I've got some plans you need to sign off on before I throw myself into R and D." Tony paused and looked around. "Barton?"

He was alone.

Tony shrugged and was about to turn around and leave the range when JARVIS contacted him.

"Pardon me, sir, but I was unable to complete the scans."

"Why not, J?"

"My sensors appear to be offline."

"Well then fix the bug and move on with it."

"I _can't,_ sir; they have been removed. They are no longer linked to my systems."

Small hairs rose on the back of Tony's neck. "Probability that this is an external threat attempting to create access to the tower?"

"Probability is-" JARVIS's voice cut out.

"JARVIS? Talk to me."

All was quiet on the archery range, with the exception of Tony's ragged breathing. Then the lights went out.

"Override systems to voice operation only; authorization code Stark1."

Nothing happened for a long moment, then the lights slowly came back up. Tony gave a sigh of relief as he heard the noises that indicated JARVIS was booting back up on the archery level. Then he turned to the door.

Spray painted over top of the SI logo on the back of the doors was a crudely done purple bow with a nocked arrow.

.0.o.0.o.0.

Clint was just crawling out of the vent in his room when Tony's amplified voice came roaring out of JARVIS's speaker in his room.

"BARTON! NOT FUNNY, BIRDBRAIN!"

Clint couldn't help it; he laughed.

That would teach Tony to put laser tripwires in his ventilation systems.


	15. Catching

Natasha grunted as Clint slammed her up against the wall. He swallowed the noise with his lips and she sucked his tongue into her mouth, a poor imitation of what she wanted different parts of their anatomy to be doing. She reached her hands for his belt, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the wall.

"Wait," he growled. "Wait a moment."

She'd never tell anyone, but giving up control like this to Clint turned her on beyond all belief.

He tried to unzip the top part of her catsuit only to have it catch on her undershirt. This time his growl was louder, more guttural. He ripped the suit and shirt down next to the zipper and shoved it over her shoulders, pinning her arms down by her sides. Natasha's eyes narrowed. As soon as she got her hands free, she was taking him down.

Then he locked his mouth on her breast and all thoughts of revenge fled.

He'd almost lost her today. She'd been up on a rooftop, fighting one of Dr. Doom's robots when it had gotten in a lucky blow.

He'd barely managed to catch her in time as she'd fallen down the side of the building.

He released her breast from his mouth, then knelt at Tasha's side and reverently kissed the burn across her ribs. She managed to free her hands and ran a gentle thumb across the cut over his eyebrow.

After he'd caught her and she'd regained her breath, she'd wrapped her arms around his neck and had kissed the air from him. She'd whispered three words that had shattered him and then run off to continue the battle. He'd stood stock still, completely poleaxed until one of the Doombots had nearly zapped him.

He worked her suit past her lusciously curved hips and down her legs. God, those legs, registered as deadly weapons in at least three countries. He kissed the inside of each knee and then stood before her. His partner gave him her politest smile and then flipped their positions, throwing him up against the wall. She ran her fingers through his hair, then gripped it firmly and yanked his mouth down to hers. He put his hands on her waist; so tiny and soft compared to his calloused fingers.

They'd fought until the last 'bot shut down, and while Tony flew off with Bruce and the Captain in tow Clint had snagged Natasha and led her into the nearest standing structure that was empty but for the remains of some of Doom's machines and some ruble. Then he'd looked her in the eye when he asked her if she'd meant what she'd said. This was not a time to let his hearing aids play tricks on him. And when she'd said yes…

Those killer legs wrapped around his hips as she jumped, rubbing her hot center against his groin. He moaned into her mouth.

"You're wearing too many clothes, Barton." She didn't even bother trying to fight with his zipper, just popped open the button at the top of his uniform and went straight to the tearing. "What do you say I fix that?"

He fumbled with his belt and pants as she shucked his vest off. He managed to get them down his hips just enough to get his cock free. Clint slid one hand down her stomach and ran his thumb over Nat's lace covered clit, and his partner purred. When he nudged her panties aside and slid two fingers into her sopping slit, she stiffened and mewled against his lips.

Then a thought hit Clint so hard that he nearly went limp. He pulled his mouth free of hers and rested his head on her shoulder.

"Shit, Tash." His breathing was heavy and labored. "I can honestly say I wasn't planning this. I don't have a condom." He placed his hands on her waist again and looked her in the eye. "Are you still okay with this?"

"You clean?" Her eyes bored into his.

"Yeah."

"Then it's a non-issue." She rolled her hips down and onto his cock. Natasha threw her head back and moaned in ecstasy. Clint groaned as she fluttered around him, stretching to fit him. He sucked on the ivory column of her neck, leaving bruises, marking her as his.

His Tasha. Clint liked the sound of that.

She pulled her head back up and began to lift and lower her hips along his shaft. He moved one arm around to her lower back and let one hand drift back down to stroke her clit.

Her breath caught, and he kissed her again as he turned one last time, bracing her back up against the wall. She raked her nails down his back as Clint took control of their pace.

"God, Tasha… I've wanted to do this since Tuscany."

She quirked an eyebrow.

"Just since Tuscany? I've wanted to do that since you gave me a choice; wipe out the red or take the easy way out. I never did thank you for that, did I?"

She squeezed down on him, and it pulled the breath from his lungs.

"You're welcome."

"Anytime, Barton."

He slowed their frantic movements and looked into her eyes, forehead to forehead.

"я тебя люблю, Natalia Romanova."

"And I love you, Clint Barton."

They crested together, Clint just a little more vocal about it than Natasha. He didn't know how long they'd been standing there, still intertwined, until Nat laughed.

"Tony's gonna know the second we step foot in the tower, won't he?"

"You can bet your pretty little ass on it." He replied, slapping the aforementioned body part. "Especially when he sees our clothes."

Nat waited a beat, still trying to catch her breath after the slap forced a squeak from her.

"You're still wearing your pants, aren't you?"

He laughed, his full laugh that she hadn't heard since before aliens had invaded New York. "Take it as a complement, babe."

"I think I will."

Still laughing, the two partners dressed as best as they could and headed back to the tower.

Headed back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> я тебя люблю – Russian for 'I love you'


	16. Postscript: Headcanons

Clint doesn't like letting Natasha drive. Ever. Except in Russia; then it's okay.

.

He really does sleep in a nest. Elevated bed, piles of pillows and blankets, and he sleeps curled up in the center.

.

Hawk he may be, but without a coffee transfusion in the morning, early bird he is not. Not a night owl either. He leaves that craziness to Nat.

.

He can cook. He can cook well. Really well. He just doesn't do it often.

.

Barton sings, and he's actually pretty good, but he really only does it when he's bored out of his skull spotting for Nat on a mission and only ever over comms.

.

He's a smartass. Caw, caw, motherfuckers!

.

He prefers to travel by air vent. Hidden, stealthy, and he can scare the crap out of Tony.

.

Ever since Loki, Clint gets chronic optical migraines. The only things that seem to help are pitch darkness, silence, and Natasha.

.

He and Nat sleep together. Not for sex (at first) but for comfort after a tough mission. Nightmares suck.

.

When they do start sleeping together, it's because they're the person that the other trusts the most, who knows the most about them. They know what the other does for a living; they don't have to lie. (Part one of sex)

.

Clint hates hospitals. Has for a long time. Even when he's hurt, he spends as little time there as humanly possible. (Part one of hospitals)

.

He speaks a little bit of a lot of languages, but only a few fluently. Aside from English, he speaks French, Spanish, and German, with passable Italian, Greek and Hebrew. Nat is teaching him Russian.

.

Clint can't remember anything from while he was under the influence of the scepter. The last thing he remembers is a wall of blue and the words 'You have heart'. That is, that's all he remembers until he dreams.

.

His superior eyesight comes from the fact that he has over twice the number of rods in his eyes, and less than a quarter of the cones that the average person has. This means that his focus is greater, and he sees in mostly black and white for higher contrast. This also enables him to see through two way mirrors.

.

(Part two of hospitals) Nat and Clint patch each other up whenever possible. Stitches, cracked ribs, dislocated joints, they do it all. They do draw the line at head injuries and broken limbs.

.

He doesn't miss. Ever. Except for that one time in Prague. And Nat has never let him forget it.

.

(Part two of sex) When they do start sleeping together, sometimes it's tender, but more often than not, it's bloody and violent.


	17. Post-Postscript: One More Headcanon...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random little headcanon that won’t leave me alone. It’s definitely Clint, but I’m not certain whether the responding voice is Coulson or Natasha. It fits for either of them. Based on one of the author's favorite adages, "Silence is golden, but duct tape is silver."

Clint doesn’t shut up after midnight. Especially if you feed him. He’s like a gremlin that way.

.

“Sorry about the word vomit I kind of spewed all over you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t have alphabet soup-”

“Clint?”

“-Cause then it would have been _literal_ word vomit-”

“Clint.”

“-But what if it was tomato soup with letter crackers-”

“CLINT!”

“What?”

“Enough with the soup?”

“Why?”

“Remember what I told you about silence?”

“…That it’s golden?”

“Don’t make me get the silver.”

“…’Kay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve updated, well, anything. I’ve had an insane amount of writer’s block due to school and work crap, but I think the vent has been raised and my muses have returned! This is so stinking short, I think my notes are longer than the story, but I had to get it out there! more to come!

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on ffn.


End file.
